Take Me Anywhere
by rebel diamond18
Summary: Alexandra Eames never wanted to be a princess.  She wanted to play and climb and jump and throw with the boys  and for thirtytwo years she had.  Now a country which she had never really identified with as her own, have risen up to demand her as their figu
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I don't know how this one's going to fly, but it's something that won't get out of my head. BA characters are very similar to how we know them, just in a different element. Its Criminal Intent meets Princess Diaries meets Chasing Liberty – so if you're not into the BA romance, look elsewhere. But give it a try, cuz I kinda like writing it.

**Chapter One – Big Girls Don't Cry**

_**A small, yet noteworthy country somewhere in Europe; Today . . . **_

"You have got to be kidding me," the petite woman insisted, her voice breaking though her anger was evident. "You promised me," she hissed, pointing her finger accusingly. "You promised this would Never. Happen."

"I know," her father responded regretfully, not being able to meet his daughter's eyes despite his tough exterior. "Alexandra," he pleaded.

"Alex," she corrected distractedly out of habit, her palm went to her forehead and she began pacing, her steps echoing off the vast walls of the ballroom they stood in. Technically, it was a "conference room" but the former term, by normal standards, could apply.

"Alex," he placated, "I cannot change what the people demand. And they demand you. You should be flattered," he made a futile attempted to put a positive spin on the situation.

"Flattered!? This is my life, dad! I was NOT raised for this! I was raised for the opposite of this! Do you know what this means?" she opened her hands in entreaty, using her whole body in an attempt to communicate with him. "Of course you know what this means," she chastised herself, "but so do I. I'm not naive. The majority of the country may want to see me in a dress and a crown, but a minority, which is an awful lot of people, demand otherwise. I'll have the rightful heirs, a large and powerful family, out for my head!"

Richard Eames studied his headstrong daughter. Even now, she was a sight. Wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers she did not fit with her surroundings – the grand (Alex would say 'gaudy') conference room. Her blue t-shirt clashed harshly against the gold walls and shimmering ceiling fixtures. She'd never know how much it hurt him to do this to her – how much it broke his heart to tell her the news that would pull her into this other world against her will, utterly on her own and at the mercy of strangers.

"You don't have to do this," he conceded quietly.

Alex spun to face him and gave him a doubtful look, "If I don't, the Wallace family falls into line, the country will fall apart, and everyone will blame me," she thrust a hand at her chest. Alex closed her eyes and attempted a cleansing breath. The smell of majesty hung over the place like a death shroud and she choked on the heavy air.

When Alex woke up this morning, she thought all that was on her schedule for the day was her morning coffee (tons of sugar) while pouring over her imported _New York Times_. Maybe she'd even attempt the crossword. She never risen to Will Shortz's challenge when she lived in his city for most of her life, but now that she had returned to her European birthplace to spend time with her dad at his request, the urge to have a crack at the puzzle had overtaken her.

She was only on fourteen across -- "modern business equipment," seven letters -- and welcomed the interruption of the ringing telephone. On the other end was an over-polite woman informing her she was requested to "have an audience with her father" at noon at the palace. Alex was willing to do a lot of things for her father, stepping onto the high-and-mighty grounds of royalty was not one of them. Why in the world didn't he just call and tell her what he wanted? When she suggested this idea to the woman on the phone, she was given a polite version of "screw you" and hung up on.

Alex sighed. When she had agreed to come back to spend her summer vacation off from her job as an elementary school teacher with him, her father had given her a cryptic response of "maybe you'll find a job here." What Alex at the time thought was a father's hopefulness to be near his daughter was now known to be a foreshadowing. Which explained why every time Alex suggested him moving to New York (his birthplace); she got a shake of the head.

Since birth she had avoided the ballrooms and the palace grounds in general, if she could help it. She supposed that as a kid she should've liked the large estate and all the open grass, all the mazelike hedges, but she hadn't. She much preferred the tree house in the backyard of the simple home off the palace grounds that she and her father had shared and playing with the neighborhood kids in the adjoining town where she went to public school. She knew people in the palace looked down on her, even as a child when she didn't know the full circumstances, she could feel their disapproving stares -- that she was tracking her bastard mud into their pristine world – a reminder that their precious Queen had felt the need to go slumming with her own bodyguard and had chosen to bear the child instead of quietly getting rid of it, the option the staff and general public found more palpable.

Alex's father had had an affair with the Queen, who was supposed to have been in mourning for her late husband, the King. At the time, the staff had looked the other way, deciding the Queen deserved some happiness, having lost her husband and left with a country to run and a young son to raise. That was, until she became pregnant with Alex. A little misdemeanor suddenly became a national felony.

Richard was quickly demoted to bodyguard for the young Prince Michael, the Queen's legitimate child, and the Queen had spent the duration of the pregnancy in hiding, not making a single public appearance. Upon her daughter's birth, Alex's mother had been given the choice of kin or country and she chose the latter. Richard had more or less raised Alex as a single parent. She had a happy childhood regardless. Not one of anonymity, as her father's affair with her mother was a nationwide scandal. Her mother had tried to reach out a little, but Alex had gone away to the United States where she had duel citizenship, to go to school and live with her father's family.

But, as the castle was her father's place of business as bodyguard to the Prince, entering its sacred grounds couldn't always be prevented. As the guard to Prince Michael since before the young heir could walk, Richard Eames was to naturally rise to the place of bodyguard to King Michael one day – but that would never be. Michael had tragically died of cancer mere weeks ago, which had been followed, even more unfortunately by the death of the Queen (and consequently Alex's estranged mother) days later by a stroke. Alex had mourned their deaths, but not as half-sister and daughter, and not as dedicated supporter, but the kind of mourning of a distant relation. She hadn't spoken to either of them much at all in her entire life.

Michael had been so youthful, even during the illness, and only a couple years older than Alex's thirty-two. No one believed he would ever die before having a son or daughter of his own. His wife, filled with grief and overwhelmed by the pressure, had vanished. The whole country mourned. The line of succession had been abruptly snuffed out. They looked to a leader and they had chosen Alex, the Queen's only other offspring, by popular consent and, hours ago, officially by Parliament. Alexandra would either agree to give up her status as a normal citizen or the line of succession would fall to the Queen's mother's side, the Wallace's. And a dubious side of the family it was.

"You're life will have to change," Richard Eames spoke finally. "I wish it didn't, but I have no power to change that."

"And I don't either?"

Alexandra Elizabeth Eames never wanted to be a princess. She wanted to play and climb and jump and throw with the boys, and for thirty-two years she had. Now a country which she had never really identified as her own, have risen up to demand her as their figurehead -- the same country that had branded her a bastard upon birth, the product of an affair when her mother, the Queen, had an affair with her bodyguard, the man that stood before her now.

Alex knew, in the back of her mind despite how far she forced it, that this might be a possibility some day, that her parentage might come back to haunt her, that she might someday be called upon to aid her mother's native country. As hard as she tried to leave it behind her, when Alex was in America, she couldn't help but scan the newspapers for the name of her native country.

"I don't look like these people. I don't talk like these people," she offered piteously.

"You'll learn," her father assured her, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"An English accent?" she kidded.

Richard smiled at his daughter's characteristic humor. He put his arm around his daughter, "Well, maybe not the accent. I'm afraid you and I will never be true residents, will we?" He led them towards the door. Before she exited, his expression turned serious and he moved her shoulders to face him, look him in the eyes. "You're going to be hearing this a lot from me in the upcoming months, but I want you to know that I mean it now. You will make a great Queen, Alex. I knew you always would. I recognized you as the Princess you were – even if the rest of the country took a little longer."

Allowing his daughter to be whisked away to make her decision official, Richard entered his office the resided off of a side hallway. He heaved a great sigh as he flopped down into his chair. Well, it was over. He had broken the news to Alex and she had taken it with dignity. He was filled with pride for his daughter and beloved adopted country. But his thoughts quickly sobered. Nothing was really over. It's really only just begun.

"Richard," Tom, who had been the bodyguard to the Queen until her death, greeted as he entered. "I just heard the news. Congratulations are in order, I suppose."

Richard shook his head, "I didn't do anything. It was Alex's decision."

Tom shrugged, "Congratulations all the same. It's about time Alex was recognized. But this leaves us very little time. There's going to have to be some arrangements made. A bodyguard for instance. You could be a conflict of interest and I'm only staying on long enough to get things settled. I could suggest a few men and women we've been training, but I don't have to tell you that this is a delicate situation. I don't think Alexandra has the full grasp of just how much danger she could be in."

Richard stood, shaking his head, "I've already found the guy," he plopped a folder down onto the desk between them.

Tom picked it up, looking doubtful he flipped through. "Robert O. Goren," he recited. "Wait, Goren? The guy who jumps off buildings?" his speaking earned him a glare and he corrected himself. "But . . . he is not one of us," he ventured. "He's American."

Eames nodded, "So is Alex, really. She might feel more comfortable with someone she more identifies with."

Tom continued to peruse the folder. "I don't think anyone could identify with any part of this guy," he commented offhandedly. He snapped the folder closed and looked up at Richard incredulously, "He knows five languages."

Richard ignored him, "We bring someone in from the outside, we know he will not be aligned with anyone but us," he reasoned.

"Or he could be bought off by the other side," Tom threw out.

Eames shook his head, "Not this guy."

Tom made a last ditch effort to persuade his colleague, "Isn't he a little . . . unconventional?"

Richard Eames sat back in his chair, "These are unconventional times. And Alexandra is an unconventional princess."

TBC

A/N: Will Shortz is the editor of the NYTimes' notoriously difficult crossword puzzle.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two –

For not the first time in the past few months, Robert Goren had to stop and take a minute to remind himself just what country he currently resided in. While traveling all over the globe for varying amounts of time was something he enjoyed, acting as a bodyguard wasn't his first choice of occupation coming out of the Army and working as a cop in the New York City Narcotics division. He'd just kind of fell into it. First as a favor for a friend of a friend of the captain's, then word got around that he was pretty good and thorough and before he could return to his home base of New York, he was offered another job in yet another part of the country.

The avalanche of assignments meant he hadn't been to the apartment he continued to pay rent on in over two years. He had wanted to end up in Major Case, but had gotten sidetracked. His captain had assured him he'd put in a good word that would almost guarantee him a spot when he was ready for it. And to be honest, he was ready to go home. Or stay in one place, at least. His buddy, Lewis, was living in his apartment rent-free in return for taking care of the place and the bills. Lewis was a good guy, but Bobby held his temples when he thought of the state he may find it in if he should ever return.

But Bobby liked his current job. It was always changing, which kept his mind occupied, and took him to all sorts of locations. He could exercise his knowledge of foreign languages and got to travel, which he always enjoyed – trying new foods, blending in with new people. He had just come off a stint in Germany, now he was back in the English-speaking part of Europe, where they had the slightest tinge of upper-crust English accents to their voices. It was a small country, which at first surprised him. He was mostly brought on specifically for special cases, high profile or high risk only, so his job was never to just stand around, there was always an investigation to run. But he'd be lying if he said all of it wasn't catching up to him.

Bobby sighed, pushing any remaining negative thoughts to the side, and flipped open the file he'd already memorized on the plane. Alexandra Elizabeth Eames, who preferred to be addressed as "Alex," was a newly recognized royal plucked from among the masses to be made the country's figurehead. But the assent was expected to be a complicated one as the family was already plagued with tragedy and the general public, along with other royals, were getting restless. Bobby's role in all this was to be combination bodyguard, head of security, and investigator as there had already been death threats on Ms. Eames' life.

Bobby looked up across the desk at Mr. Eames, Alex's father and the man who had sought him out. Which was something Bobby had worried about at first – parents were notorious for their overreacting and had a habit of getting in the way of the truth. In a folder in Bobby's hand were copies of the numerous letters and e-mails mentioning Ms. Eames chances of not living long enough to wear the crown. Bobby could tell right away some, ironically the more forwardly hostile, were amateur – cranky citizens looking to make a fuss or young kids looking to get on the local news and cause uproar. But some, he zeroed in on as quite legitimate.

Richard Eames nodded to the pile on the desk Goren shifted through, "Alex doesn't know . . . all of this, but this wouldn't be the first time a royal's life has been threatened." He stressed the phrase "all of," which Bobby took to mean "anything about." That, along with the brush off at the end, raised all sorts of red flags.

"Has anyone looked at the rival family? The . . .?"

"Wallace's," Richard supplied. He smiled, "Goren, the Wallace's are not known for their good moral standing, but trust me, they wouldn't **kill** anyone."

Bobby didn't feel particularly convinced and, judging by the wavering in his voice, he wasn't sure Richard was either. Understandably, the idea may be so unsavory he refused to acknowledge it -- he couldn't be objective as it was his daughter being threatened. That's where Goren came in.

"Well, sir, don't you, don't you think she ought to know?"

Richard leaned forward in his chair, "Alex is going to having a rough time of it, I'm afraid. I did not raise her for this possibility. In fact, I raised her for the opposite. If I can take one thing off her mind, I was hoping it would be this," his eyes visibly saddened.

"If you don't mind, I'd rather discuss this with her," Goren plodded gently, albeit firmly, ahead.

Richard nodded in defeated understanding.

"If she'd rather be left out of it, then I will," Bobby put both hands up in surrender, "But I'd like to hear it from her."

Richard jumped a bit in his seat, "Speaking of," he said. "Ah, Alex!" he called out as he saw her swoosh past the open door and Goren twisted in his chair.

Alex audibly skidded to a halt. Backpedaling she stood in the doorway, craning her neck to check out the entire room, then looked at her father and poked her head back outside the hallway, obviously surprised to see them all there. She was noshing on licorice, and had a peace hanging loosely from her lips as she surveyed the room confusedly. She could've sworn her dad's office was around the next bend, but nope, there he was, standing up at his desk across from some big guy who was looking at her amusedly -- which pissed her off.

OK, so she was already in a bad mood. She had just spent five hours in an enclosed space with people called themselves "fashion consultants" -- two word that Alex detested separately. Together, they were pure hell.

"Alex, is the candy completely necessary?" Richard Eames glanced nervously at their guest.

Alex rolled her eyes – trying to turn her into a snob already, was he? "You spend five hours in a corset circa 1887 and see if you don't get a little peckish," she gestured at him with the Twizzler in her left hand.

Goren dropped his head to hide the smirk and chuckle that threatened to escape. "No, its fine," he insisted, lifting a hand.

Alex crinkled her brows, _Like I need this guy's permission to eat. Who is this guy?_

"Who is this guy?" she voiced the thought in her head. Okay, that had come out a little pissier that she had planned, but the guy looked like he could deal, yet she guiltily watched him sober nonetheless.

"Meet Detective Robert Goren," her father gestured to the big guy who stood belatedly (that much she remembered from that morning's Etiquette 101) and a little clumsily.

"Alex," the Detective offered his hand, and his chair, his eyes aimed at the floor for most of the greeting.

Alex took his hand, her eyebrows still knitted together, "Call me Al . . .," she began out of habit of insisting on being called Alex then stopped, realizing he already had. Huh.

But her mind was already going in another direction altogether, "Wait a minute – detective?"

"I, I'm not here to get in your way," Goren began.

"Well that's fine, but get in my way how?" she insisted, looking at Richard warily.

Her father stood, "It's because of the nature of the thing."

"The nature of what thing, how?" Now her father was being cagey, which was never a good sign. Neither was the ominous folder in the detective's grip.

Bobby stood also, but had the good sense to stay out of it for the time being. This is what he had been afraid of – Alex had been kept out of the loop and now she was being thrust into yet another foreign situation. Now she was openly hostile to her father . . . and to him.

"If I could, ah, interrupt," Goren forced himself into the middle of the standoff – a role he was used to.

"What?" she whipped around on him.

Bobby tilted his head and gave her dubious look. He didn't mind being the interim scapegoat for the anger that was inevitably to come out of such an adjustment, but this would get them nowhere and Alex seemed to come to the same conclusion.

"I'm sorry," she quickly amended.

Goren shook his head, "Fine. I see we have . . . a lot to cover, do you mind if we take this," he gestured with the folder and Alex's eyes followed it, "elsewhere?" He'd purposefully not asked her father for permission; instead spoke directly to her, moving to let her through the doorway first.

"Fine," she agreed tersely. She knew she was acting the part of the petulant child, but if she was going to be treated her like one, what kind of reaction did they expect? She strode down the hallway, trying her best to ignore the gawker-lined hallways that seemed to be a fixture in her life now and allowed herself be led toward one of the smaller conference rooms.

She chose to concentrate on the sound their shoes made echoing off the walls. Alex glanced out of the corner of her eye, studying the man as he shortened his strides to fall in step with her. "What's in the folder?" She nodded to the manila in his grip.

Now it was his turn to look confused as he followed her gaze, seemingly having forgotten he carried it with him. "Oh, um," Goren stalled, not really wanting to start this conversation in the hallway, "Ah . . . you," he finally settled on the truth.

Alex visibly jerked. His answer may not have been a great one, but it effectively shut her up for the rest of the trip.

They entered the conference room she vaguely remembered having a meeting in that morning. Her orphaned _New York Times_ on the table, folded open to the crossword, confirmed it. She had brought it with her, thinking she'd have time to kill. She had been wrong. Alex watched as the detective picked it up like he was familiar with it.

"Boomtown."

"What?" She was getting sick of playing catch-up with this guy.

Goren looked up, like he hadn't realized he'd said it aloud. He licked his lips and danced a little agitatedly, "Thirty-five Across, Fast-growing community, eight letters. The, the answer's Boomtown," he gestured with his hands.

Alex's eyebrows finally unknitted from the previous room, but only because they not shot up in the air. This was surreal. And jeez, he stuttered a lot. If this all turns out okay, he'll prove to be the most competent incompetent she'd ever met.

"Oh. You do the crossword?" He hadn't answered in a conceited way and she couldn't fault him for knowing the answers just by glancing at it. Meanwhile Alex had to stare at it like a monkey doing a math problem.

He nodded, "When I have the time, yeah. I'm surprised to find _The New York Times_ here. I couldn't find it at the airport."

Alex circled around the table, "This country is suspicious of anything that wasn't discovered, invented, or grown here. I have to get it smuggled in. Though I'm sure that's in your file," she nodded to the little slip of manila in his hand that apparently held her life story. _Why the hell's it so thin?_ "Along with me," she added when he wasn't instantly forthcoming with information.

"I don't know how much your father or anyone's told you . . . about the threats against your life. I'm led to believe not a lot."

Alex's face visibly paled, "You'd be right." Her hand felt to her right and gripped the back of a chair, but fought the urge to lower herself into it.

"There's been threats made on you life, Alex – real threats. Now, some turmoil is to be expected in this type of situation."

So she was a 'type' she thought.

As he talked, he reached into the folder, deliberately taking out one letter at a time, lining them in a row on the table. "You're being brought in from the outside. Now . . . now, some of these are pretty flimsy – designed to just ruffle a few feathers. But some of these could be very serious."

Alex watched as the row became longer and longer. She wanted to yell out, "Stop" – to grab his arm and throw the pages away, but she didn't.

"That's what I've been brought here for – to protect you and weed out the likely suspects, and hopefully bring them out into the open before any real attempt is made on your life and preferably before your coronation."

Stammered, Alex mentally corrected herself. He stammered, not stuttered. She continued her delicate, shaky trek around the table, blindly picking up letters and email printouts, fighting the bile that rose in her throat over the horrible words and pictures that littered them. Alex's focus was blurred and she couldn't read what was on the page in front of her. She steeled herself under his studious gaze – she could feel his eyes burning onto her face, watching for any and every reaction.

"Well, what do you think?" Alex didn't normally seek out others' opinion on her life, but he seemed to be some kind of an expert, and she needed to buy some time to allow some things to sink in.

Bobby jerked a little at her question, probably surprised she wasn't getting hysterical. "I don't want to alienate you out of this. We should be a team." Bobby ducked his head, trying to catch her eyes as she was staring into space with an expression that worried him, partly because he couldn't read it. "That is if . . . if you want to be. What do you think?"

"Well," she breathed, "I knew I wasn't going to be popular in some circles, but this is ridiculous."

He looked shocked, suspended in midair. It was a beat before somebody cut the strings that held his limbs all at once, "Oh, humor, I get it." But neither of them relaxed. And he was still waiting for her answer.

"Do you always carry that?" she nodded just to the right of him. He followed her gaze to the gun at his hip. She hadn't been staring unfocusedly at all, quite focused in fact.

"Ah, yeah," he answered confusedly. She nodded at his answer. "And you?" he ventured again. "Um . . . what do you think?"

She raised her chin, met his eyes dead on, and spoke with the authority that finally hinted to him why these people wanted her for their queen, "I think you're going to teach me how to shoot."

TBC

A/N: I'm pretty sure Goren wouldn't be called "Detective" yet – but I want it in the story, so I'm pretending he already has the title. Gotta love that creative liberty.

A/N: Sorry the update was so long coming -- I hope to fix that in the future. I'm actually quite excited to write the next chapter (the last line should more than hint why) so it should hopefully be done soon -- I might me moving things along a bit quick, but I get too excited to draw it out.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three –

Richard Eames was not okay with the idea of his daughter armed. It wasn't that he didn't trust her. He did. But it was so much easier for him to lay the responsibility for his daughter's safety on someone else's doorstep, namely Goren's. Maybe it was the fact that the two of them were already conspiring against him: He had to hear about a purchase of a gun for his little girl from one of his spies, a/k/a the other guards who overheard them. This was not exactly what he had planned when he hired outside help to look after his daughter – instead of being kept in the loop, details were being kept secret instead.

So, on a rainy Saturday afternoon, a quiet day in the castle, Alex and Goren crept down an old winding stone staircase that was supposed to lead to an old basement that had been converted into an underground shooting range that not many people used anymore, let alone knew about. As a country with a history of peace – where firearms and gun laws have never been a problem, where the royals were for the most part cared for and lauded after, not threatened – so far as the secret service in the castle never felt an overwhelming need to use the place much.

They began this excursion right after brunch.

And they were still descending.

Alex brushed her hair out of her face, "How far down is it? I'm getting vertigo."

"I think I heard my ears pop about three floors ago," Goren conceded, like Alex keeping his hands out to his sides to brush the narrow stone walls to help him navigate the spirals in the low lighting. "According to the map," he waved the folded paper and flashlight, "it shouldn't be much farther."

Of course. No wonder Alex felt like she'd been dragged around the castle by him since she'd met him: He'd memorized the floor plans. He led her around the palace practically by her ear. It irritated her that he all of a sudden knew the place so well. It was HER palace! Meanwhile she couldn't even find the bathroom.

"Ha!" she heard him call out in success as he rounded the last corner before her. She forced her gaze down to maneuver the last few uneven cobblestone steps. She had gotten out of the heels hours ago but she still felt like she was walking on stilts. He glanced back at her and absentmindedly offered his hand, which, under the circumstances, she gratefully took to help her hop off the uneven last step, and looked up.

"Huh," she marveled with him. "Who knew?" Before them was a thick, soundproof Plexiglas door through which you could see the range: a half a dozen dividers designated the spots each with a pulley system that allowed you to hang your target and move it downrange toward the new walling that had been put in to absorbed the bullets. It wasn't exactly state-of-the-art, but it would work. The view took some getting used to: the mix of the centuries old stone and the new-age technology.

Alex followed him through the door. The air was stale because of the tight seal the soundproofing had created, whereas the rooms in other parts of the building were high and breezy. Goren put the case he had been carrying down on the counter. The locks clicked open and in the case sat Alex's new handgun – a .99 mm Glock. Goren picked up the piece and began fiddling with it. He'd been quiet ever since their day in the conference room, when she'd first learned about the threats on her life. And besides the crack on the stairs earlier, Alex was finding he wasn't a real talkative guy. Meanwhile, Alex had to spill her life story and movements on a regular basis.

"So where are you from?" she ventured, as she stood helplessly to the side.

The personal question visibly threw him, his hands on the gun stilled. "Um . . . a lot of places," he resumed concentration on his task, removing pieces, examining them, and putting them back together.

Alex didn't appreciate the brush-off, "A lot of places?" she crossed her arms, "What the hell does that mean?"

He shrugged, "Means I've lived in a lot of places. Grew up in many places, many countries." Alex studied him, obviously uncomfortable under scrutiny. "Here, I . . . I'll show you how to load it."

Fifteen minutes later, Alex took a strong stance and lifted the gun downrange, finger off the trigger. Goren stood behind her and reached around her with his right hand. "See this . . . this divot in the front on the gun, and the white dot, back here," he explained patiently, fingering the items with his thumb and index finger. "You line the dot in between the two divots and your target on top."

He adjusted his body closer to hers, his arm brushing hers to point out some aspect of the weapon. At first, his movements were hesitant – a combination of her standoffishness and his nervousness. But, as they both focused on their task and their roles as teacher and student, he became more confident. His hands danced across her body, once to adjust her shoulders, again to tighten her grip in one place, loosen it in others. It kept her slightly on edge, not knowing where she'd feel him next.

His fingertips slid down her arms, starting at her shoulders and ending at her fingertips, where he gripped harder.

Once to her wrists to fine-tune them.

Her hips to straighten them.

Her thigh to move her leg into a stronger stance.

She was hyperaware of his close proximity and when it was actually time to shoot, she had to take a few deep breaths to better concentrate on the figure eight her hands naturally made. Alex inhaled, exhaled, watching the movement of her gun, and squeezed the trigger with her fingertip. The kickback pushed her more firmly against his chest. The effort forced him to take a step back and steadied her by gripping both her elbows.

They were suspended for a moment . . . just like that. Alex felt his hands grip her tighter and, for just a moment, she let herself sink back into him ever so slightly. Then, just as suddenly, the air broke. Goren cleared his throat and eased her back steadily onto her feet. Alex let out an uneven breath and brushed herself off.

He reached around her to pull the target back to them to examine. There, in the upper left area of the paper was a perfect round hole. It wasn't the bull's-eye, but it was the quadrant she had been aiming for.

"You're a natural," he praised, as happy with her as his ability to teach, which he wasn't sure in – people tended to be turned off by his seemingly unrelated tangents. But anytime he lost her, she'd stop him assertively and tell him to slow down and clarify.

At first his efforts were clumsy – he wasn't used to being part of a team. He usually worked alone – his hirers preferred he deal with whatever the circumstances were by himself, give them an occasional update, but let them know when it was all done. But this case was different . . . Alex was different.

They stood so close Alex could smell the mix of her spray with his cologne, heightened by the enclosed windowless space and the heat of their bodies. And Alex noted the scent wasn't completely unappealing.

"Germany," he murmured, he had his head down as he was loading another clip.

Alex shook her head, still lost in her own thoughts, "Huh?"

"Germany. I was, ah, I was born in Germany. I was an ARMY brat and I was born in Germany. But I grew up mostly in New York."

Alex couldn't help the softening of her features and the small smile on her lips.

"I've . . . never told anyone that."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four –

"Agh!"

Goren cautiously followed the exasperated echoed tones he recognized as Alex's down the hall and around the corner. When he had arrived that morning, instead of getting the itinerary of her schedule, like he normally did, he was told cryptically by the secretary that he would "find her in the third ballroom." Goren didn't like when he didn't get concrete answers to his questions, and he would have been concerned if it weren't for the gleam in the eye and half smile of the woman.

Alex didn't know he received daily printouts of her schedule, which covered her whereabouts for not only every waking second, but her sleeping arrangements as well. They also told him who she'd be with at all times. In addition he regularly viewed the phone records that tracked incoming and outgoing calls, looking for patterns and suspicious area codes. These printouts gave him a plethora of information: That Alex did not have a significant other nor was she dating. And that she cleared out time in her schedule, almost every day, to call her father's family in New York to speak with her aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews. She was big on getting her required eight hours sleep and didn't sacrifice those precious hours for anyone, least of all royalty-related activities – "high-heel boot camp training", she called it.

After a long discussion and for convenience's sake she had at least been convinced to leave her apartment and sleep in her room in the castle instead. "Sleep" being the operative word because she refused to give up her old place, despite the rent. Goren noted that soon he have to go over her apartment to get the layout – map out entrances and exits -- should anything ever happen. He'd been given the key to her apartment by her father, but he didn't feel right using it to break in. He needed to get Alex's okay first, or at least be invited.

Bobby gingerly approached the ballroom, where music (something from Vivaldi's _Four Seasons Concerto_s, if he wasn't mistaken) was wafting out of a phonograph Goren was sure they stopped making in 1848. He waved back a few household helpers who were finding enjoyment in eavesdropping and peered around the door, not allowing his full body to come into view.

Alex and a man of a dignified sixty stood in the center of the vast floor, the design on which was spiraled like the yellow brick road. The man had his right hand on her waist, which Goren could tell she didn't like by the barely hidden distaste on her face and stiffness of her posture, which Bobby could tell wasn't just for the sake of proper form. The man's left hand was joined in hers, held out to their side.

She was wearing a zip-up hoodie, jeans, and delicate heels that glinted when the light from the tall windows hit them just so. Every few moments, Alex would wrench her hand out of the gentleman's to yank at the bottom of the sweatshirt, which kept riding up, exposing the bare skin of her hip to his instructing touch. When she did this, she would shortly lose her focus and wobble on her heels before quickly righting herself.

"Your Highness. . ." the man insisted, exasperated, sounding to Goren like he was yet again starting in on an argument that they'd had before.

"Alex," she insisted a little more forcefully than she might of had she not been stressed and frustrated. Bobby got the sense this was not the first time she'd had to tell the man to call her something other than "Your Highness."

Neither of them looked particularly happy to be there.

"Perhaps we should call it a day," offered the man.

"Perhaps we should," repeated Alex in an overly chipper imitation of his stiff accent, forcibly shrugging off his hands.

The man quickly gathered himself and heeled it out of the room.

Bobby entered, watching Alex take deep breaths and fiddle with her high heels that looked to be giving her blisters. She hopped on one heel and mouthed "Ow" a few times.

"What was that all about?" he ventured, bending at the waist to follow the man out of the room.

Alex spun to face him. "Dancing," she spat, unconcerned with Bobby's sudden appearance. On the contrary, even only after a few days, Alex had come to accept him as just an aspect of her life, one she expected even. She'd even caught herself seeking him out in a room once or twice, which momentarily disconcerted her for a bevy of reasons. "I have to learn to dance," she motioned to the music that was wafting from the record player "because apparently this country has yet to come into the twenty-first century," she yelled out to where the man had just existed. "And me and Jeeves there don't exactly get along," she hitched her thumb to where the man had stood.

Goren smiled, nodding in understanding. "It's not that hard," he commented, walking further onto the floor.

Alex turned her bad mood onto him, putting her hands on her waist, "Oh yeah, hot shot? You going to tell me that in one of those many places you're from you were a competitive flamingo dancer?"

Goren grinned at her, "Not exactly," he shrugged, "I just like to dance."

She folded her arms, "Well so do I but this isn't exactly ABBA, now is it?"

He approached her and despite the strange look she gave him, took her in his arms. Her arms automatically joined his in the now engrained position. "Now, what have you learned so far?" he asked, looking down at her.

Alex blanched but quickly recovered, "Something that had a one-two-three, one-two-three in it," not objecting that he hadn't done the formal ask and bow first and instead had been so bold as to simply take hold of her.

Bobby nodded, "A minuet," he commented, "which is strange because a minuet is usually the third movement in a symphony or string quartet," he ruminated aloud. Her brows arched in an are-you-kidding-me look he was beginning to recognize, "Right," he quickly amended, looking down at his feet, "not relevant. Okay, we can start there."

The record player skipped for a moment, and then a simple violin began to echo against the walls; a much less intimidating tune. Bobby gently pushed her away and made an exaggerated bow. Alex laughed despite herself, the first real laugh she could remember in days, and made a curtsy of her own. Bobby was glad to see her smile as they met again in the middle of the floor.

As he slowly moved them in circles, he could feel her body clench, her face contorted with concentration. "Don't count," Bobby interrupted her, causing her to glance up from where she was watching her feet, "Don't count," he insisted, shaking his head. "Just move with me."

"Easier said than done," she grumbled, trying to will her muscles to relax. Alex's natural inclination was not to be led.

He leaned in much closer than Jeeves had and spoke softly into her ear, her forehead brushed his chest, "You gotta trust me, Alex," she closed her eyes at the feeling of his breath on her skin, the slight plead in his deep timbre. "Let me lead. Don't try to be three steps ahead of me."

Alex couldn't help but smile at the mere thought of it, "I doubt anybody has ever been three steps ahead of you at anything."

She breathed deep and exhaled slowly, letting go – letting all of it go – and just moved. He turned them in patterns she hadn't even learned yet, patterns she probably would have deemed too difficult, but with him – when they moved together – they weren't. He didn't even keep hold of her the whole time. He'd gently let go, smoothly advancing her into a spin, finishing with her back pressed against his chest. She arched her neck back towards him, almost to question the closeness of their bodies, but before she could fully form the thought in her head, he'd spin her out again, moving them with more refinement than she thought she was capable of and with more grace than a man of his stature ought to have.

As the last notes trickled from the antique machine he spun her, one last time, gracefully away from him.

When their eyes met, Bobby bowed again, "Thank you for the dance, Your Highness." With a gentle smile he swept out of the room, leaving Alex in a considerably better mood. She hadn't even noticed to object when he called her "Your Highness."

TBC


End file.
